iris patch like the cheery little butterflies and twittering
birds that kept up a continuous chorus of “ good
mornings ” from the near bushes. What a world of
colour it was! The sheer gaudiness would have
frightened a painter, who would never have found
spectators sufficiently credulous to put faith in his
portrait. The sun poured threads of light into every
purple bloom and glossy leaf, till they vied with the
gold-shot robes of the saints in the early Italian pictures.
Hillside, rushing stream, shady trees, all quivered with
light and life; even the sad-featured labourers relaxed
and stopped their work for a little talk, while their
womenkind, usually so silent and reserved, questioned
me as to my destination and doings, and held up pretty
dimpled babies, clad in red caps and insufficient shirts,
for me to praise and admire. A low range of hills had
to be crossed, and the heat made the path slippery and
tiring, but the descent was cheaply bought at the price
of a little fatigue and some rough walking. In a few
minutes I had passed from a gaudy flower carpet of
crimson roses, yellow berberis, violet iris, to a world
in white, Kashmir in her spring wedding garment,
veiled in snowy blossoms, to a whiteness turned to
silver by the sunny glow, a veritable Easter garden,
full of sweet perfumes, an altogether unforgettable
vision of loveliness. Hawthorns, a white viburnum,
guelder roses, cluster roses, soft, loose peonies, spikes
of eremurus, a small honeysuckle (Lonicera spinosa),
and a drapery of clematis montana were answerable
for the taller masses. Beneath, a carpet of tiny
treasures, white arabis, strawberry flowers, shepherd’s
purse, and oxalis was spread out, while graceful Solomon’s
seals and a white comfrey filled all spaces between
the upper and the lower ranks. With such a wealth of
treasures it seemed ridiculous to attempt the carrying
off of a few miserable specimens, so I sat still and tried
to make notches in my memory, that at least their
numbers and variety might remain with me when their
perfume and freshness had passed out of mind with
so many more lovely things. But my men collected a
great garland. I t was part of a system of bribery they
had found to work admirably, for when my tent or
room was wreathed with blossoms, it was an impossible
deed to find any fault with the skilful decorators on
other grounds. I do not know why that particular
hillside was so consistent in its flower scheme; perhaps
the long winter months, with their snow coverings,
bleach the flowers; maybe the slopes, unaccustomed
to all save white, refuse the gayer blooms. Whatever
the cause, that descent mid the pale blossoms, with the
mingled scent of honey and fresh spring growth, will
remain as one of those visions which, years after, return
amid widely different surroundings, bringing, with the
vivid impression of colour and scent, a heartache akin
to that felt, on opening a letter written by a hand that
never can hold pen again, or entering a room once
inhabited by a dear presence since passed away.
The march was some fifteen miles, and the mid-day
sun was very trying, when emerging from the shady
hill paths I descended to the river level again, and
paced beside streams that inadequately filled their
stony beds, or with caution crossed them by bridges
that partook of the general character of modern
Kashmirian structures, extreme elegance with the
minimum of stability. Generally a bridge is merely
placed to show that the path crosses that particular